


Mattak and Sauvignon

by Liara_90



Category: Ghost Fleet
Genre: Canon Compliant, Diplomacy, Gen, Missing Scene, One Shot, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Politics, Washington D.C., White House, greenland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 18:34:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14314674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liara_90/pseuds/Liara_90
Summary: Before the icebreakers can sail through the Northwest Passage, certain diplomatic niceties have to be dealt with. And so President Conley welcomes the First Premier of the Republic of Kalaallit Nunaat to the White House.A “missing scene” moment fromGhost Fleet: A Novel of the Next World War.





	Mattak and Sauvignon

* * *

From her spot on the steps overlooking the South Lawn - her position meticulously choreographed by the Office of the Chief of Protocol - National Security Advisor Nora Nguyen suppressed a familiar shiver. It was snowing, and a polar vortex over Hudson Bay had sent temperatures plummeting in the District. A born-and-raised Angeleno, Nguyen had gone the first fourteen years of her life without seeing snow, spent another twelve years in the MidEast “sandbox”, and never felt like she’d missed much. The pool of media cameras a few feet away also meant that she couldn't seal herself up under an all-encompassing Canada Goose parka, and was left to feel her circulation slipping away in a fashionable-if-not-quite-functional ASOS trench coat.

"Count your blessings," instructed a voice to her right, crisp and clear in the unseasonable cold. "I could have met her at Andrews."

Nguyen let out a sub-vocal _growl_ at the prospect of being forced to wait on a frigid, exposed tarmac in the middle of winter. "How gracious you are, Mister President."

Alexander Charlie Conley, 50th President of the United States of America, smiled beneficently upon his NSA. He'd grown up riding the crest of the shale boom, and long winters in the desolate Dakotas had hardened him to whatever Washington could cough up. POTUS didn't even have the luxury of Nguyen's coat, instead dressed as if he'd just stepped out of the West Wing for a quick smoke.

Before them, a small convy of matte-black SUVs made their way in a counter-clockwise arc around the South Lawn, Chevy Suburbans with bulletproof windows and run-flat tires. Secret Service personnel dotted across the landscape kept their eyes trained on the skies, weary for any micro-drones that might try to slip the jamming. Since the opening of hostilities the security envelope around the White House had only widened, enveloping both the Ellipse to the south and Lafayette Square to the north. Tourist photos of the Executive Mansion had gone the way of visits to the cockpit in the pre-9/11 era. Even the White House Peace Vigil had been kicked down to Constitution Avenue.

It was still overkill - the intelligence community was _pretty_ confident that China didn't want to escalate the conflict with targeted assassinations of political leaders - but it was also pomp and circumstance. The Premier of Greenland didn't even have an official plane yet, so the President had kindly dispatched what was normally Air Force Two to Nuuk. Complete with fighter escort and an honor guard at JBA.

A little flattery never hurt, especially not in politics.

The Premier's limo - flying both a gold-fringed Star-Spangled Banner and the red-white Erfalasorput of Greenland - pulled to a smooth stop before POTUS, Marines in dress blues taking over from the be-suited Secret Servicemen. Editors at newsrooms around the world began piping the footage on-screen, and the greeting party of White House politicos ceased their idle chit-chat.

"Madame Premier," the President began, extending a hand. " _Amerikkarmiut tikilluaritsi_."

Premier Maliin Karlsen smiled politely at the extent of the President's Greenlandic.There was exactly _one_ Greenlandic speaker on the White House's payroll, and until three week' ago he'd been editing spreadsheets at the National Museum of the American Indian.

"Thank you for your hospitality, President Conley," replied the Premier, mercifully in English. She'd spent much of her professional life soliciting investors in Copenhagen and London, and her enunciation was flawless. She took the President's hand in her own, with her free arm enveloping the leader of the free world in a hug. "And for your friendship with the people of Kalaallit Nunaat."

The two leaders smiled at the little white lie. Both knew that _friendship_ had very little to do with the American recognition of Greenlandic independence. Recognition that had been condemned by China, Russia, and most of Europe, with Madrid going so far as to withdraw its ambassador in protest. But it had _everything_ to do with hard-nosed geopolitics, the kind of logic that Thucydides and Bismarck would've known.

Conley began escorting Karlsen into the Diplomatic Reception Room, where overhead heaters discreetly radiated warmth unto them. Nguyen followed them in a half-minute later - giving the camera crews an unobstructed view of the newfound BFFs - falling in beside someone who happened to be the Secretary of the Interior.

"Heard the Directorate is buying up the opposition left and right,” SOI remarked, referring to the Inuit Ataqatigiit, which had begun loudly protesting the as-yet unratified friendship treaty with surprising vigor and coordination. “Rumor has it there’s a lot of unusual crypto activity happening.”

Nguyen shrugged, not particularly in the mood to indulge the curiosity of a former governor of Wyoming and political has-been. “I couldn’t say,” she replied, with reflexive ambiguity. Truth be told, both the National Security Agency and the Treasury’s FinCEN had been flagging suspicious blockchain transactions for some time now. Not in the Bitcoin of Satoshi Nakamoto, of course, but its more cryptographically-anonymous successors, originating in digital currency exchanges in Zhongguancun and being converted into dollars, pounds, renminbi, rubles. “I wouldn’t worry, though.”

The Secretary snorted, a gruff noise conveying skepticism at the forty-something NSA’s expertise. “It’d be a shame to piss off all of Europe if the Chinese end up sweeping in and snatching it all,” he muttered, lowering his voice as they passed a gaggle of journos. “Now that they no longer need the EU’s say-so.”

That too was a real concern. Greenland had mineral wealth beyond imagination, but a population no larger than a modest Midwestern town. Exploiting those resources would require manpower imported from abroad, and in the thousands. Whether Exxon or the Directorate supplied those men remained (nominally) up in the air.

“They won’t,” Nguyen assured him, with more confidence than before. “We’re quite certain that Karlsen would much rather have a few multinational engineers then twenty thousand Directorate-owned miners.” Because while the Premier had made her name as a businesswoman, she was first and foremost a patriotic Kalaallit. And a few misgivings notwithstanding, she trusted a Washington a helluva lot more than Beijing.

Nguyen parted with the SOI as they entered the West Wing, the NSA slipping into the Oval Office through the workspace of the presidential secretary. The President and the Premier were already seated in front of the marble mantle of the fireplace, chatting amicably about what would be the first Presidential address to the Inatsisartut, in a few months. The White House Press Secretary was wrangling a dozen-odd photojournalists, men and women juggling cameras, handheld recorders, boom mics and notepads. This was just for show - a Q&A with the White House press corps would be taking place shortly before the state dinner - and the two heads of state politely ignored the questions lobbed their way.

Nguyen stuffed her hands in her pockets, watching it all with the bemused disinterest of a national security wonk who’d never quite gotten a feel for the pageantry of the Presidency. She’d have been perfectly content to hole POTUS up in Cheyenne Mountain until the upcoming shitstorm in Hawaii was over, but that apparently didn’t play in Peoria.

Less than a minute after they’d entered, the photojournalists and videographers were escorted out, followed a half-minute later by Premier Karlsen herself, who’d be whisked off to Blair House to prep for the night’s dinner. The Oval Office quieted down as the doors were shut, leaving the President alone with a small coterie of his senior staff.

“So far so good?” polled the President, his eyes sweeping over his advisors. The political staffers nodded more emphatically than the NatSec crowd, who weren’t as professionally opinionated on these things. Recognizing Greenlandic independence generally polled well, if only because the American Revolution had primed most of the public to instinctively root for the secessionists. The White House itself had done a fairly effective job of framing the issue as a question of self-determination (for the liberally-minded) and of national self-interest (for the realists), and it wasn’t like there were many Danish lobbyists on K Street.

“MSM and sosh are both positive,” confirmed Deputy PressSec Rob Rodriguez, using vernacular for mainstream media and social media, respectively. The White House had a five-figure annual budget for media monitoring, complete with real-time sentiment analysis that was an above-average predictor of the new cycle to come. “Well, domestically, at least. International’s still pretty agnostic on it all.”

The President shrugged. He’d campaigned on strengthening the international alliances of old, but the hand he’d been dealt had necessitated a more unilateral playbook. The transatlantic relationship could be rebuilt after Hawaii was liberated.

“Two-and-a-half hours until the dinner,” another aide noted. “Do you want to do the sit-down with _E &E_ now?”

Conley nodded. _E &E News_ provided probably the best coverage of energy-related news available to the private sector, and indeed better than more foreign intelligence agencies could produce. Unknown to _E &E_, though, they were part of a charade the Executive Office was carefully orchestrating. “Nguyen, Kemp, a word.”

The unnamed staffers shuffled out of the Oval Office, leaving Nguyen alone with Taylor Kemp, White House Chief of Staff and all-around hard-ass. He wore a double-breasted suit that had gone out of style decades ago, a political knife-fighter who was a walking call-back to the era of smoke-filled back rooms, as much a dinosaur as the displays in the NMNH.

“Miss Nguyen, how’s the kabuki theater holding up?”

Nguyen offered a weak smile. “No one seems to be putting the pieces together, sir,” she replied, sharing the latest assessment of the United States intelligence community. Actually a few people had, but they were mostly bloggers and think tank-bound researchers, lost in the noise. The diplomatic and governmental chatter Fort Meade could still intercept was quiet, and that was what counted.

The President exhaled, despite himself.

The White House had been publicly stating that it was recognizing Greenlandic independence simply because it was a long-overdue acknowledgement of the principles of self-determination. Of course Catalonia, Somaliland, and the Sahrawi Arab Democratic Republic had all piped up asking when _their_ turns would be, but nobody was exactly shocked, _shocked_ at the selective application of ideology to American foreign policy. _Unofficially_ , the federal government had been gossiping like tweens on Twitter, stating that recognizing Greenland was America’s best shot at renewed energy security, giving the United States access to hydrocarbons in the Arctic and uranium in Kvanefjeld. Everything about the upcoming state dinner had been arranged to reinforce that narrative, as loudly as the PressSec officially contradicted it. Invitations to mining execs from Houston, Alaska and Oz. Sit-downs with _E &E_. The Veep delivering the Daniel Yergin Memorial Lecture at CERAWeek.

Because as long as they were talking about oil and ore, they weren’t talking about the icebreakers.

“Good,” the President stated, leaning gently on the _Resolute_ desk. “Kemp, anything I need to know?”

“State suggested I don’t tell you, but you’ve got a call holding from Denmark,” he replied, his tone dry as his Albuquerquean roots.

The President raised an eyebrow. “Rasmussen again?” he asked, referring to the Danish Prime Minister.

Kemp winced. “Actually, it’s the Queen.”

Conley let out a short hiss. “Damn.”

“Borgen must really be desperate,” Nguyen observed, using the shorthand for Christiansborg Palace, which housed all three branches of the Danish government. “Dragging royals in petty politics.”

Both Conley and Kemp nodded. The Queen of Denmark was an immensely popular figure, having short to worldwide renown working with Médecins Sans Frontières in what had once been Indonesia. Even in America - with its ingrained cultural skepticism of monarchs, constitutional or otherwise - her popularity had skyrocketed to levels not seen since Princess Di.

“Do I take it?” he asked, knowing that this was something of a _Kobayashi Maru_ scenario.

“Yes-”

“No-”

Nguyen and Kemp blurted out contradictory answers in the same split-second. The Chief of Staff shot her a dirty sideways glance, but the President just looked amused.

“Okay, I don’t have time for a parliamentary debate. Kemp?”

The Chief of Staff cleared his throat. “It’s bad optics, sir. The American President at the beck-and-call of a European monarch-”

“-Hardly _beck-and-call_ -” Nguyen interrupted, but Kemp dismissed her with a sweep of his hand.

“That’s how it will play. At least in a sizeable percent of the fourth estate.”

“So I snub someone with a 90-plus-percent approval rating?” the President replied. He hated thinking about polling, but the only politicians who didn’t were liars.

Kemp flashed his palms. “We own the media cycle for this week, sir. Denmark pulled their Ambassador, so we might as well claim the stage.”

The President nodded, before turning his attention to Nguyen. “Alright, that’s the Jacobin opinion. What say my resident Bourbonist?”

It took Nguyen a half-second to parse the Bastille-era analogy. “We’ve pissed off a lot of Europe, sir. I know that that’s unavoidable, but once the situation in Hawaii is dealt with we’re going to need a new NATO. It’s a small gesture, but I’d rather the Euros know that we at least took the time to listen to their concerns. It may pay long-term dividends.” She paused momentarily. “And if you can explain that to the Queen, then NATO 2.0 might be just that easier to build.”

The President nodded. For a few seconds, the Oval Office was silent, because POTUS was doing what POTUS did best. Listen to competing advice, weigh the variables, and reach a decision that would become the official policy of the Government of the United States of America.

“Kemp, have her put through. Nguyen, track down Protocol so I remember how you’re supposed to address a monarch. And have the State briefer sent in.”

The faintest twitch in Kemp’s hand conveyed his disagreement with the decision, but his expression was as stoic as always. “Yes, Mister President,” he replied, excusing himself with a bow of his head.

Nguyen flashed POTUS a small grin, unable to suppress the flutter of excitement that came with convincing the Commander-in-Chief of a position. The President smiled back, and Nguyen hurried to affect his will.

There was always a risk that the headlines would be made, that she’d have to fall on her sword for a politically-unpalatable suggestion she’d made. But two minutes ago the White House press pool had been given the menus for the State dinner, which included the traditional Greenlandic ingredients of whale, seal, reindeer, and shark. Raw mattak and Silver Oak Cabernet Sauvignon.

And Presidential food porn beat diplomatic gossip every day of the week.

**Author's Note:**

> If you read this, I hope you enjoyed my incredibly self-indulgent foray into geopolitical fiction. Truth be told this is the kind of stuff I wish I could write more of. If you have any feedback, positive, negative, constructive, sentimental - please feel free to leave a comment, or hit me up on [reddit](https://www.reddit.com/user/pvoberstein/overview) or [Tumblr](http://www.pvoberstein.tumblr.com/), where I got by “PvOberstein”.
> 
> I _really_ hope that I got that Greenlandic phrase right, but I'd be equally amused if someone could call me out for mistranslating it.


End file.
